Just Passing Through

Not a Destination

I own a refrigerator magnet with the simple expression that reads, “Life is a journey, not a destination,” but that is not the only place I have seen this cliché.  Not that I would have any first-hand experience (wink, wink), but it often appears on online dating sites as a mantra for the “Live, Love, Laugh” singles.  It accompanies a lone hiker on the peak of a breath-taking mountain view on a t-shirt in a gift shop.  Sometimes, it is just mass-marketed on refrigerator magnets.  Nonetheless, for as overused as the thought is, it is also entirely accurate, and a truth I believe.

As children, or for some of us as late-in-life college students, we spend time contemplating what we want to be when we grow us as if once we actually perform that task or occupy that profession, we can put a check in a box that we have achieved what we set out to do.  I like to think that the end goal is always in flux and it morphs based on our changing perspective of our life story.  The more we write into our narrative, the longer and more exciting our journey, and our story, becomes.

More Clichés

Despite what another tired expression tells us, “You can never go back,” I want my journey to include encore performances of several states.  Often as part of a longer road trip, places like South Carolina and New Hampshire were part of the journey, but never the destination.  I would like to return to Oklahoma and have the experience be more than highway along my relocation from Arizona to the Midwest.  I would like to visit Chattanooga or Nashville or Memphis and see the details and learn the history of the Volunteer State.  I’d like Kentucky to mean more to me than the airport gateway to Cincinnati.

When I neared my goal of seeing all fifty states (see “Forty-Nine” from August 2012), I may have been just passing through Connecticut, but places along the road stuck with me, despite it being just a spot between New York and Rhode Island.  I recall the myriad of pumpkin patches and the autumn leaves dancing in the road (see “Ad Placement” from November 2011).  I noted the yard signs of importance to the residents of this in-between point in my travels (see “Breathing Windmills” from December 2011) and remembered more than my itinerary referenced.  I believe I owe the same consideration and insight to the five other states that were less of a destination and more of a blur in my journeys.  I’ll be back.

Ad Placement

Car Commercials

Closed Road.  Professional Driver.  Do Not Attempt.  Or so the fine print indicates.  But those advertisements show fancy new vehicles skirting the ocean cliffs, swirling through a road of falling leaves, or exploding across the desert as the waves of heat rise and wrap the glimmering speedster.  We want more than that car, we want that driving experience.  These commercials tempt us, pretending our alternate career as professional drivers lay in the ownership of this four-wheel fantasy, but one commute to or from my office reminds me that our collective night job eludes an overwhelming majority of America’s driving population.

Locating a completely abandoned road, however, becomes the greater challenge.  My travels have taken me through several deserts, most of which are purloined by the Defense Department, but the military frowns on my driving on the runways of its test-pilot facilities.  The seagrape-covered dunes along the nearby Florida surfside roads obscure the few paltry waves that reach the cliffless shore.  Do these places really exist, or are these closed roads computer generated?

Ongoing Construction

Also known as “summer” in many northern parts of the United States, the peak periods of construction frustrate drivers in our efforts to get from here to there, slowing us down, blocking our way, and detouring us from our destinations.  While Bob obviously has a thriving business, we despise his barricades and their flashing yellow lights.  Yes, we want new, smooth roadways, but please do not impede us to get it paved.  And those painted lines constrict us, telling us we cannot pass the one vehicle leading a long line that refuses to meet, much less exceed, the speed limit.

But I found it.  I found the elusive county road in early October in northeastern Connecticut.  On a midday Monday I passed the only opposing traffic – a mail truck – on the lazy afternoon sweep headed towards Rhode Island.  Despite the warnings of road work, painting the yellow and white parallel pavement restrictions remained the only unfinished business by the men-not-at-work.  With so few travelers, the autumnal droppings formed small piles and with a gentle swerving, I allowed my new-to-me rental car to have its way with the road.  Glancing into the rear view mirror at the spiraling leaves stirred behind me, I imagine the madmen crew captures the moment on film for a future envious image for future sales campaigns.  Open road, outstanding driver.  Attempted.  Succeeded.